


all these young bodies turn

by kaci3PO



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: M/M, post-3x12 fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 09:30:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14808720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaci3PO/pseuds/kaci3PO
Summary: "The quest— it took Arielle and it took our son and it took— fuck, it's going to take my father, and fucking— fuckingeverything else, Eliot, but it can not takethis. Somehow, we remember. And I— I'm so fucking tired of pretending like we don't."OR: A continuation of Quentin's conversation with his dad at the end of 3x12, and the realization that there are some things the quest can not take.





	all these young bodies turn

"I named him after you."

Quentin has seen his dad be proud of him plenty of times throughout his life. They haven't always had the best relationship, but his father was never one to withhold affection or praise when he'd earned it. Being a "gifted" student, he'd earned it quite frequently. But, he thinks, in this moment as he sits here with his heart breaking, he thinks this might be the proudest his father has ever been. And more than that, there's something else in his eyes, too. Respect.

"Tell me about him," his dad says. "About— about this whole life you had."

Quentin smiles, unselfconscious, just thinking about that life. When he'd first remembered, it had hurt so badly — he missed Arielle and his son and somehow, he'd even missed Eliot, despite the latter still being there at his side. But time has shifted his perspective. It still hurts — he's pretty sure it will  _ always _ hurt — but the edge has been dulled enough to allow fond memories to come through.

"Well," he says, "it started with my friend Eliot."

"Eliot," his dad says thoughtfully. "He's the older boy, the one who's telekinetic?"

"Yeah," Quentin affirms. "He and I went through the clock and ended up in Fillory decades before the Chatwins were even born. We found this puzzle, a mosaic, and we were supposed to use these tiles to make something that showed 'the beauty of all life.'"

His dad snorts. "Not to be an old man about it, but...what do a couple of twentysomething year old kids know about the beauty of all life?"

Quentin laughs. " _ Exactly _ . We were there for…" He lets out a huff and shrugs. "Decades. We— we fell in love."

Quentin pauses to let his dad process that. He's pretty sure his dad has known for a long time that he was bi, but it's one of those things, like his mental health, that they never talked about. He didn't realize until the words were out of his mouth that maybe his father hadn't known.

"Is he the one you married?"

There's awkwardness in his father's voice, yes, but there's warmth, too, and Quentin lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. 'Unsure about it' isn't a rejection. He can deal.

"No. Well, kind of."

"Oh, you broke up?"

Quentin smiles. "No. Have I mentioned that in Fillory, the High King is allowed to take both a husband and a wife? Well, apparently, some members of the populace choose to do the same."

"Huh," his dad says thoughtfully. Quentin stays silent, allowing his dad time to think. "You learn something new every day, I guess," he says finally. He gives Quentin a small, but genuine smile. "So I take it the two of you took a wife, as well?"

"We did," Quentin replies. He can't stop the smile that spreads across his face. "Her name was Arielle. She was— you would've loved her. She was smart and funny and, if you can believe it, she listened to us talk about being from the future and life on Earth and the existence of cell phones and somehow  _ didn't _ think we were crazy." He pauses to consider this. "Well, at least, if she  _ did _ think we were crazy, she loved us anyway. And then our son was born.

"He was… the first time I held him…" He shakes his head. "My whole life changed the moment I saw him. Everything… You have to understand, dad. We'd been at that mosaic for  _ years  _ by then. We were getting absolutely nowhere. For the first few years, sure, we told ourselves that living in Fillory was just temporary. That we shouldn't get too used to it, or put down roots. It took me so long to tell Arielle how I felt about her because I was so sure that we'd solve the puzzle, come back to Earth, and she'd be gone.

"I don't think I believed Fillory had become my home until our son was born. He was...he  _ was _ our root. And then a few years later, Arielle passed away."

He swallows, the taste of her loss still bitter in his mouth. "It was  _ stupid _ . Just some random— it was the flu, I think. Maybe pneumonia. If we'd been on Earth, she'd have lived. Jesus, if we'd just had access to  _ magic _ , she'd have lived. But we didn't."

He feels a warm hand cover his own and looks up in surprise. His dad has actual tears in his eyes and he squeezes Quentin's hand once in silent support.

"So Eliot and I," he pauses to clear his throat before continuing, "we raised our son together. I was so scared. Terrified that we'd solve the mosaic while he was out playing with friends and he'd come home to no one. I couldn't bear to think about my son being alone in the world."

"I—" his dad starts. "I know the feeling." His voice sounds just about as wrecked as Quentin feels.

"But we didn't," Quentin continues. "It wasn't enough. Loving her, losing her...the birth of my son...it still wasn't enough. The quest wanted more. 'The beauty of all life.'" He wipes at his eyes with the back of his free hand. "Anyway. We grew old. Our son set out for a life of his own. We had grandchildren. Half a dozen of them. The first time one of them called me 'grandpa?' Second best feeling of my life. And it still wasn't enough."

He takes a sip of water to calm himself down before he gets to the hardest part of the story. "So we grew older. We stopped thinking about our lives outside of Fillory. We— Eliot and I, we were all each other had. And then he died. He  _ died _ , dad, right there in front of me. He sat down to take a break from the puzzle and then he was just  _ gone _ . And I was without him, for the first time in half a century. I thought— I didn't want to go on. But as I dug his grave, right next to where we'd buried Arielle decades before, I found it. The solution to the puzzle. 'The beauty of all life.'"

He swallows roughly. "And then it— all of it, it was just taken away. I don't know  _ how  _ we remember it. We had a family. God, you'd have loved the grandkids."

They meet each other's eyes and Quentin knows without asking that they're both thinking about the fact that he won't live long enough to meet any of his grandchildren once magic is back.

They're silent for a long time, Quentin pulling himself out of the misery of missing people who never existed, his dad trying to comprehend the entire life he missed getting to watch his son live.

Finally, his father asks, "And what about now?"

"About what?"

"Eliot," his dad says, with just a hint of 'it should be obvious' in his voice. "You said you both remembered."

"Oh. Uhm, I don't know. We haven't really talked about it."

His dad's eyes widen. "Curly Q," he says seriously, "if you love this guy—"

"I—" Quentin interrupts. "I don't know if I— or if he— I  _ remember _ loving him. It's different."

"Is it?" his dad asks, and Quentin's taken aback by the conviction in his father's voice. "Since you remembered, are things different between you?"

Quentin considers this. They've always had a fairly physical friendship, the threesome with Margo notwithstanding, but since they remembered, it's true that Eliot's company has made him feel calmer. Eliot's hugs have lasted just a little  _ too  _ long to be their previous version of platonic. And there have been times when Quentin's body has reacted to Eliot's as if by sense memory: leaning into him automatically, sitting closer than before, catching himself halfway to leaning in for a kiss.

" _ Oh _ ," he breathes. "Yes." He swallows around the lump in his throat. "Holy shit, I—"

His dad gives his hand one last squeeze and then smiles. "So go get him."

***

Quentin arrives back at the Physical Cottage late in the afternoon, taking the stairs two at a time and practically sprinting for Eliot's bedroom. Now that they're actually preparing to find the locks that fit their keys, it feels like time is slipping through Quentin's fingers. He's keenly aware that they might not all make it, and yes, they're pretty much  _ always  _ fucked six ways to Sunday on some level, but something about this feels more final than anything has before.

Eliot is half asleep with a book in his lap when Quentin throws open his door, but he startles awake quickly. His hair is disheveled from what Quentin surmises has been a long day of research and Quentin nearly chokes on a memory, sudden and unbidden of the two of them in bed early one morning, waking to the smell of the bacon and eggs Arielle was making for breakfast. Quentin had laughed at how Eliot's hair was particularly out of sorts and Eliot had poked Quentin's sides until he was helpless with a tickle-inspired giggle fit. He remembers thinking how he'd never thought he'd get to be this happy, would never be this loved.

"Q?" Eliot says cautiously. "Everything go okay with your dad?"

Quentin closes the door and sets his bag down on the floor. Eliot watches him, considering, before throwing both legs over the side of the bed and starting to get up. Quentin rushes over and puts both hands on Eliot's shoulders, keeping him in place.

"No," he says. "No, just...give me a minute."

"Okay," Eliot says soothingly. "You can tell me, Q."

Another difference since they remembered their life in Fillory: Eliot's a little more willing to be emotionally vulnerable with Quentin now. Not hugely so, but enough that Quentin notices, especially in this moment. Eliot is being so... _ delicate _ with him.

"If we do this, I'm all but murdering my father," he says finally.

"Q—"

"But that's not— that's not why I'm here."

"Okay. Do you want to tell me?" He reaches out and settles his hands on Quentin's hips, rubbing careful circles with his thumbs. "I won't even make inappropriate jokes. Scout's honor."

Quentin watches his face, searching for _what_ , he has no idea. Eliot allows it, holding Quentin's gaze steady with his own, silent and waiting.

"I love you," Quentin says finally. "The quest— it took Arielle and it took our son and it took— fuck, it's going to take my father, and fucking— fucking  _ everything else _ , Eliot, but it can not take  _ this _ . Somehow, we remember. And I— I'm so fucking tired of pretending like we don't."

He kisses Eliot, breathless and crying and somehow in this moment he hates everything in the entire multiverse except the man in front of him, the only one who can understand just what he's lost.

Eliot returns the kiss with interest, dexterous fingers immediately going to work on removing their clothes. Quentin allows it, kicks off his shoes and socks while Eliot's pulling his own shirt off.

Eliot allows Quentin to push him onto his back once they're naked and Quentin wastes no time getting his knee between Eliot's thighs. He grinds down against Eliot's hip, and Eliot grips him by the waist to keep him there.

"I love you, too," he pants against Quentin's ear. "But you already know that, don't you?"

Quentin kisses him, tangling his fingers in Eliot's thick curls. He loved— no,  _ loves _ Eliot's hair. He's not letting Eliot become his past tense ever again.

One of the good parts about having a lifetime of memories is that he and Eliot know  _ exactly _ what each other likes in bed. They had decades to perfect this, to fine tune what felt best and who liked what and where. And bonus: on Earth, there's actual lube.

He presses his forehead against Eliot's and slows his grinding down as best he can. He's torn between the need to rush, the feeling that time is limited and every second is precious, and the desire to draw it out, to take his time and get reacquainted with Eliot's body in this lifetime.

Eliot presses his fingertips against the lines of Quentin's forehead and frowns. "Q, stop thinking."

"I'm trying," he answers. "Everything is just— so much."

Eliot rolls them over and presses a gentle kiss to his lips. "I know," he says. "Just relax. I've got you."

He pulls open the bedside table drawer and brings out a bottle of lube and a condom and lays them on Quentin's chest. "I have secret stashes of this stuff hidden in all the best sex spots in the Cottage," he confides.

Quentin bursts out laughing. Somehow, in the sixty plus years they lived together in Fillory, Eliot never divulged that particular secret. It's ridiculous and stupid and so very, very  _ Eliot _ . The fact that after a lifetime together, there are still things they don't know about each other amazes him.

"Of course you do," Quentin replies when he's stopped laughing. Eliot is grinning above him, shameless.

"You'll thank me when you want a quickie in the kitchen and we don't have to try to use like, butter or some shit as lube."

"People eat in there," Quentin feels compelled to point out. Eliot threads their fingers together and brings Quentin's hand up to his lips, pressing a quick kiss to his knuckles.

Eliot gives him a look, and somehow, without him saying anything, and despite neither of them being telepathic or, indeed, having magic to fuel telepathy even if they were, Quentin knows that Eliot is thinking,  _ I know. I do a lot of eating  _ out _ in there myself. _

"You're terrible," he says, without any venom. "But I do appreciate that you're looking out for our future."

"Of course, Q," Eliot says. He's grinning and Quentin has always loved Eliot's smile but never has he loved it more than when it's the special one, the one Eliot has always reserved only for him.

"Here," he says, pressing the lube into Eliot's hand. "Just go slow.  _ I _ might remember everything but this body hasn't done this in a while."

Eliot nods and kisses him once more before settling between Quentin's knees. He curls his fingers under Quentin's knee and lifts it up and out, settling it on his hip. He bends down and takes Quentin's cock in his mouth, sucking gently on the head until Quentin starts to moan. He pulls back, a tease, and slicks his fingers with the lube.

"Just tell me if you need me to slow down or stop," he says, idly circling one finger around Quentin's entrance. "It's weird, remembering how well you learned to take it back in Fillory, but then thinking about the fact that your body doesn't know that." He shrugs, as if to say  _ alternate timelines, screwing up our sex life _ , then carefully presses one finger inside.

It takes longer for him to be ready than Quentin remembers it took in Fillory, but he doesn't mind. Eliot has always been a skilled lover and it's one of the few things that hasn't changed. By the time he slides home (and that's what they are,  _ home _ ), Quentin is so ready for him that he practically begs.

"Not that I don't love a needy bottom," Eliot teases. He's got Quentin's hands raised just slightly above his head, his own fingers threaded through Quentin's, "but I love  _ this  _ more."

He rocks into Quentin slowly, just letting him get used to the feeling of Eliot inside him again. It's overwhelming, just as it was the first few times in Fillory, and Quentin arches his back up against Eliot to try to take him deeper. Eliot makes a  _ tsk tsk _ noise and maintains the long, slow strokes. He leans down to capture Quentin's lips in a kiss and that helps, having another point of contact to focus on.

"Faster," he murmurs. "I won't break, Eliot."

"Shh," Eliot soothes. "I will, I promise. Just making sure you're ready for me."

Quentin lets out a groan of frustration that Eliot swallows with another kiss. Finally, blissfully, Eliot starts to pick up the pace, thrusting into Quentin steadily enough that Quentin's cock starts leaking precum between their bellies.

"Better?" Eliot asks in a tone of voice that suggests he already knows the answer.

"Fuck you," Quentin gasps, completely devoid of intent.

Eliot laughs, which makes Quentin laugh, and before long they're half-laughing half-moaning as their bodies finally pick up on what their brains remember and start to move as one.

Eliot releases Quentin's hands and reaches between them, stroking Quentin's cock and spreading the slick as it continues to leak out of him. He knows  _ exactly _ how Quentin likes it, can play Quentin like a harp if he wants to. Every nerve ending in the entire lower half of his body feels like it's singing for Eliot and it doesn't take long at all before Quentin's moaning Eliot's name and coming hard, spilling over Eliot's fist just as he feels Eliot spill into the condom inside him.

"You okay?" Eliot asks as he pulls out. He ties off the condom and tosses it into the trash can before gently prodding at Quentin's hole with two fingers. "I wanted to make sure we could do that again later, if we wanted. Didn't want you too sore."

Quentin blushes, which is stupid because he wasn't blushing before, when Eliot was getting him ready, and he certainly didn't blush back in Fillory. "I'm fine," he mutters.

Eliot takes his fingers away and gives him an understanding sort of smile. "Sorry. I'm just so used to...I don't know. Being comfortable with each other's bodies."

Quentin nods. "We will be again. Just...takes time, I think."

Eliot kisses him chastely on the forehead and lays down beside him.

"Are you okay, though? I mean, with everything else. Your dad, the quest…"

"No," Quentin admits. "But this is...it's just nice to be reminded that the quest hasn't taken  _ everything _ ."

"Yeah," Eliot agrees. "Not this. Never."

***

It takes a day to forget after they drink the potion. A day of trying to say everything that needs to be said, a day of holding onto Eliot as tight as he can and whispering over and over, "We remembered once, we can do it again," until it becomes a mantra, until every fiber of his being is focused on not losing the one good thing the quest hadn't taken away yet.

And then Quentin Coldwater is gone.

***

Brian wakes up in his Brooklyn apartment, unable to escape the feeling that he's forgotten something very important. Unable to remember what it was, he shrugs.

Must've been a dream.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) In my head, the monster didn't take over Eliot until after the Library had wiped their memories and released them into the wild. I base this on nothing more than the fact that nothing seems weird with Eliot until _after_ Dean Fogg shows up to give them the potion.  
>  2) Like most people, I really wanted to see them talk about what happened in 3x05, and the closest we got was Quentin's conversation with his dad at the end of 3x12. This was originally supposed to be my solution to that, a fill-in-the-blank that continued their conversation past "I named him after you." But once I wrote that scene, it got me thinking on the theme of how aware Quentin is about the mechanics of these types of quests, and the sacrifices they demand, and thus how the quest took Arielle, his son, his grandkids, his father...but not Eliot. Eliot is the ONE thing the quest hadn't taken from him.  
> 3) And that got me thinking, "If Eliot is the one thing that the quest didn't take from him, how much more painful is it then, when A- they immediately have to take the forgetting potion but have an entire day to wallow in the misery of knowing they'll lose each other, and then B- the monster then takes over Eliot?"  
> 4) The answer is a lot more painful! I didn't know it would hurt this much to write!  
> 5) I didn't linger too long on the Potion Day Scene because I was 8000% thinking of that episode of Angel where Buffy and Angel get to have that one great day with him as a human and then they have to turn back the clock and he'll remember but she won't, and she's just sobbing and promising she won't forget...and then of course immediately does. I didn't even ship Buffy and Angel and that shit had me crying like a baby. Couldn't bring myself to do it to Queliot. Soz.


End file.
